


Clutch and Shift

by Liara_90



Category: Shoujo Kakumei Utena | Revolutionary Girl Utena
Genre: After Ohtori, Canon Compliant, Canon Lesbian Character, Emotional Baggage, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Feels, LGBTQ Themes, Magical Realism, One Shot, POV Female Character, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Romance, Sexuality, Slow Romance, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-17 21:51:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16982472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liara_90/pseuds/Liara_90
Summary: Several years after Ohtori Academy, Juri Arisugawa returns to Japan after some time abroad. On that night, her star crosses the path of Wakaba Shinohara.A short story about figuring out where to go.





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

Juri Arisugawa watched absentmindedly as the last of the ocean vanished from her view.

They were getting close, then, to the end of yet another jaunt between continents. The Pacific Ocean - shimmering in the orange-red rays of the setting sun - gave way to the grays and greens of solid land. The Bōsō Peninsula of Chiba Prefecture, specifically, which foreshadowed their landing at Narita. Juri had flown this route so many times she could practically pick out the landmarks, which she did, idly, while the stewardesses busied about preparing for touchdown. If everything went well, she could be ~~home~~ at her house in a little more than an hour...

Juri slammed the shade on her window down, blocking out the view. None of the stewardesses dared correct her breach of aviation regulations.

The landing was smooth, her re-entry similarly so. She hadn't traveled with any checked luggage, only a handbag slung easily over her shoulder, and the officers at Customs & Immigration hurriedly apologized for the few seconds of her time they took up. From there it was a few quick steps to a black taxi, where a white-gloved chauffeur tripped over himself opening the door for her.

* * *

_The man behind the desk glances wearily in her direction, no doubt dreading having to deal with another tourist from the Far East and the language barrier that entailed. The shock is plain on his face when she begins speaking to him in a German on par with Goethe. It is the fourth language she’s learned, but it may has well have been in her mother’s. Juri signs her name with a flourish, and snatches the rental’s keys._

* * *

She should have gone to her house, some part of her brain knew. She hadn't slept on the flight - _wouldn't let herself_ sleep on flights - and this was one of the rare times when her body's natural exhaustion was in sync with the local time zone. Letting herself crash now would blunt the worst of the jet lag, that feeling of being out-of-step with the world around her.

So instead she gave the driver directions to a club in downtown Tokyo.

It wasn't a club in the way most Americans or Europeans used the term: to refer to a place where young people went for a fun night out surrounded by friends, music, and booze. Indeed, it wasn't a place you'd find listed in any business or building directory, it did nothing to advertise its own existence. Admission was by invitation only, and if you had to ask how to get an invite, you weren't the type to receive one. Membership cost a small fortune per annum, and that was just to get in the front door.

The lobby of the building was empty but for a lone concierge, who bowed deferentially in Juri's direction as she made her way to the elevators. The doors parted, and she jabbed the button for _90_ , settling in for the long ascent.

For reasons she could never quite place, it was always a deeply-familiar feeling.

A chime finally sounded, and Juri strolled on out, the heel of her ankle boots _clicking_ loudly against the polished marble floor. She shrugged out of her coat, tossing it in the direction of the coat check, while a nubile little hostess bowed at the waist as she approached.

"Arisugawa-san, welcome back," the hostess greeted, with enough emotion in her voice that she sounded plausibly sincere. "Would you like your usual table?"

Her mind still a million miles away, it took Juri a half-second too long to respond. "Yes," she finally replied, brushing hairs out of her eyes. "For one."

The hostess flashed an appropriately polite smile, and then began guiding Juri into the club proper. Juri's usual table was against the windows of the room, which stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Far below them, looking like miniature sets for a _tokusatsu_ movie, lay the National Diet Building and the Imperial Palace, the symbols of monarchical and civic rule. Juri herself had found them no more impressive in-person than when looked down upon from a thousand feet up.

"A waitress will be with you shortly, Arisugawa-san," said the hostess, again bowing far lower than conventional propriety would have dictated. "If you will excuse me."

Had she wanted a drink, there were better and more convenient venues that Juri could have gone to. The same could be said for if she'd wanted food, or music, or company. The club could provide all of those, along with any number of more exotic luxuries, but that wasn't really its purpose, any more than they were Juri's reason for being there.

Her eyes swept the room of the club, which was dimly lit, apart from the light of the still-setting sun streaming in through those windows. The room, like the skyscraper it was in, was a product of 80s exuberance, when Japan's booming economy had driven real estate to astronomical prices and realized any number of fanciful, even _delusional_ construction projects. The market had collapsed, leading to the so-called Lost Decade that was the 1990s, but the building and the club within it had remained, as if they existed in an alternate world where economic reality had never ensued. Cigar smoke still filled the air, and men still drank coffee sprinkled with flakes of gold.

A couple of tables away, Juri spotted a former Prime Minister holding court with some up-and-coming Party hacks. He'd lost none of his vitality with age, it seemed, though his weight had continued to balloon since Juri had last seen him. The heads of a few second-tier _zaibatsu_ were drinking together at the bar, while a none-too-distant relation of His Majesty the Emperor had a girl a fraction his age on his lap and two more hanging on his every word. All of their heads had turned when Juri Arisugawa entered the club, to the woman who had spared them not even a sideways glance as she took her seat.

The club existed at the very pinnacle of high society, for the elites within the elites. Merely entering it affirmed one's status, one's _power_.

It was a hollow reason. But it was her reason for being there all the same.

Juri's gaze had drifted back towards the window by the time her waitress arrived, heralded by the _clicks_ of her heels.

"Good evening, Arisugawa-san, I'll be taking care of you tonight," the woman said, and Juri listened to the soft sound of a leather-bound menu being placed on her table. "Can I interest you in anything to eat?" Juri smoothed out the smallest of wrinkles in the tablecloth. "Or should I just bring you an épée to fight off all the men sending you drinks?"

Juri’s eyes darted towards the waitress, blinking back shock. "...W-Wakaba?"


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

_She peels out of the city and onto the Autobahn, depressing the accelerator. The sky is dark and the traffic light, and Juri watches as the speedometer creeps ever-upward, further along the gauge than she could ever go in Japan._

* * *

“ _He-he_ , it really _is_ you, isn’t it, _senpai_?” Wakaba repeated, unable to suppress the smile spreading across her face. Not that she tried very hard.

Juri allowed a coy grin of her own to escape. “It’s been a long time,” she replied by way of agreement. Her eyes swept over Wakaba from head to toe, with the effortless efficiency of a fencing champion on the piste. Wakaba was wearing the same outfit as the other women who worked at the club, something too short and too tight, high heels and a low cut. “You’ve changed.”

“Well, _yeah_ , dummy, the last time you saw me I was like fourteen years old,” Wakaba replied, placing her hands on her hips to emphasize the point. Juri raised an amused eyebrow, and Wakaba’s brain caught up to her mouth a half-second later. “I mean, _heh_ , I’m just touched that you remembered me, Arisugawa-san,” she appended, bowing low and belatedly remembering not to berate the clientele.

Juri dismissed the pseudo-apology with a flick of her hand. “Never mind all that.” She tilted her head at the chair opposite her own. “Sit with me, for a bit.”

Wakaba smiled, a mischievous little grin that was still far too adorable. “You know how the club works, Arisugawa-san,” she replied, teasingly. “Buy me a drink and I can keep you company.”

* * *

_The few vehicles blur indistinctly all around her. Her hand is resting on the clutch, and then she upshifts higher still._

* * *

They clinked glasses, sloshing the deep red wine. And the wine _was_ good, some part of Juri’s brain informed her, though the message didn’t make it very far. She’d ordered blindly, picking a vintage guaranteed to be expensive enough to secure Wakaba’s time. A few of the men shot dirty glances in their direction, no doubt fantasizing about what Juri had in store for the waitress, but Juri kept a chaste distance between the two of them.

“...Well, you know how it is,” Wakaba continued, twisting the stem of her glass. “Everyone going in different directions. Transferred, graduated, expelled, _whatever_.” She took a deep sip of the wine, crossing her arms and legs in some convoluted pose. “I spent like a year in Fiji, did some odd jobs, ended up here.”

The way she said ‘ _Fiji_ ’ gave it away. Japanese speakers tended to make the Fijian ‘ _j_ ’ soft, whereas Anglophones pronounced it hard and jagged, like Wakaba just had.

“You studied English there, I take it?” Juri guessed. It was certainly a popular place to do so. Immersive, and far cheaper than living in Australia or America, at any rate.

“ _Mm-hm_!” Wakaba confirmed, smiling from ear to ear. “Don’t really use it much here, but it’s still nice to know.” She leaned forward, resting both elbows on one knee. “What about you? Any globe-trotting?”

“Yes,” Juri replied, sinking further into her own seat. “I actually did a bit of modeling, in Europe.” _Milan... Paris... Barcelona. A disgusting amount of money to put on a dress and some diamonds._ “I just flew in this evening from Los Angeles, actually.”

“ _Really_?” Wakaba asked, managing to lean even further forward while still not un-crossing any of her limbs. “Ooooh, was it Hollywood stuff? Are you making a movie?”

“I had a few offers, yes,” Juri confirmed, staring at her glass as the wine lapped at its rim. “I turned them all down, though.” She looked over the rim of the glass, catching Wakaba’s expectant gaze. “I don’t think I can make a career out of looking pretty and kissing ‘dashing’ men.”

Wakaba snorted. “ _Whaaaaat_ , isn’t that _every_ girl’s dream?” she asked, though the twinkle in her eyes made it clear she was teasing.

Juri absorbed the jest with a sip of her wine. “I seem to remember you having a taste in men that was somewhat... _problematic_ , Wakaba.”

Wakaba’s expression turned cross in an instant. “Do you know the old Shakespeare quote: ‘ _people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones_ ’?” she replied, dryly, an eyebrow twitching as she spoke.

Juri grinned despite herself. ( _She was doing that a lot all of a sudden._ ) “I don’t think it was Shakespeare.”

Wakaba stuck her tongue out. “Excuse me, _senpai_ , not all of us are as effortlessly perfect as you are.”

Juri’s grin faded, muscles relaxing to a muted neutrality. “I’m... not perfect. My life certainly isn’t.” Juri kept swirling her glass, but the motion was half-hearted. “Why would I ever want to come to a place like this if it was...”

Wakaba’s expression softened at once. She uncrossed her legs, and for a second, she was the utterly earnest, fourteen-year old schoolgirl Juri remembered. “I’m sorry, senpai, I didn’t mean to...”

Juri suppressed the urge to kick herself. Wakaba’s head was bowed, eyes downcast into her own drink. Perhaps on impulse, perhaps on a fencer’s eye for opportunity, Juri leaned forward, letting one finger rest beneath Wakaba’s chin, tilting it upwards with the gentlest of pressures.

“That came out wrong,” Juri amended, staring into Wakaba’s beautiful brown eyes. “What I meant to say-”

She was interrupted by Wakaba rising to her feet, breaking physical contact. “My shift’s done in twenty minutes,” she replied, shooting Juri a small smile.

“Explain it to me then.”


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

_It is freedom that the car promises, as she drives deeper into Deutschland. At least, that’s what every glossy magazine and slick commercial have always told her. If not freedom then at least escape, reprieve, for a few hours. Juri rarely drives herself, rarely having both the need and opportunity. Tonight she has, she’s_ made _, both. Freedom, escape, liberation, ~~revolution~~._

* * *

Juri was waiting for Wakaba right where she’d asked, towards the back of the building where the underground parking lot exited. There was no missing her, that was for sure. Wakaba felt her stomach tighten as she pulled up to the curb, Juri Arisugawa waiting for her there, in the flesh. God knew how she could just _stand around_ looking like she belonged in a Baroque painting.

Hell, that she was _standing around_ for Wakaba at all was kinda mind-blowing.

“Heya, sorry for the wait,” Wakaba apologized. Juri showed no trace of impatience, however, and just lowered herself gracefully into the passenger seat. “She’s not much, but she’ll get you where you need to go,” Wakaba continued, patting the dashboard of her aging Subaru Justy. “I bet you drive something _super_ high-end, right?”

Juri brushed off the questioning, cracking open her window. It had started to rain lightly, but she didn’t mind the occasional wayward drop. “This is a perfectly fine car,” she replied, as Wakaba began driving them out of Chiyoda-ku. “Hot pink is a rather interesting choice for a color, though.”

Wakaba grinned, depressing the accelerator further. “So... where are we going?”


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

_It comes quicker than conscious thought can process. Something’s on the road, something’s ahead, and Juri is traveling at speeds far faster than all of human evolution could have prepared her for. Her hands and her feet move without her mind’s permission, swerving, downshifting, braking. The car spins like a top as Juri avoids a disaster she barely has time to anticipate, its headlights casting luminescent streaks in the darkness._

* * *

Wakaba actually had difficulty accepting that this was all Juri’s. Even after the real estate market had crashed it was still an absurdly large amount of land for a person to own within driving distance of downtown Tokyo. That half-forgotten feeling of unreality began creeping up her neck again as she made her way down the long, _long_ driveway to the domicile of Juri Arisugawa.

“So, I guess modeling pays pretty well, right?” she asked, as Juri wordlessly directed her towards a garage by the side of the manor.

“It does,” Juri confirmed, after a long pause. Wakaba parked the car between two others, both veiled with thick black tarps. “Though I try to manage my money well. Made some profitable investments.” Wakaba killed the ignition. “I was the Student Council Treasurer, remember?”

Wakaba flashed an apologetic smile. “Kinda? I’ve already forgotten so much from school, it’s depressing.”

Juri mirrored that same smile. “Me too. It feels like a past life, almost.”

Wakaba whipped around to Juri’s side of the car before the latter could react, opening the door with a flourish and a bow. A forced exuberance, to keep either of them from dwelling. “Well, why don’t you give me the tour?”

“I’d be happy to.”

They ended up circling back, backtracking out of the garage and walking up a set of steps to the front doors. There was no denying the foreign influences on the architecture, on a structure that looked more like a not-so-miniature version of Versailles or Neuschwanstein. Juri pushed a set of double-doors open in one forceful motion, extending an arm to usher Wakaba in.

“Wooooow,” Wakaba breathed, craning her neck to take in the expansive hall in front of her. “It’s so... so...

~~empty~~

...big.”

The doors swung shut behind Juri. “It’s more space than I need,” she admitted, shrugging off her coat and dropping it on a nearby bench. “Can I take your jacket?”

Wakaba reddened for a second, before unbelting her jacket and handing it over to Juri. She hadn’t bothered changing out of her working uniform, leaving her still in an immodestly short dress. “I had a change of clothes at work but I spaced out and left them in my locker ‘cuz I didn’t want to keep you waiting-”

“-it’s really no trouble I can lend you something if you’d-”

“-but I figured it’s kind of cute anyways so I just left it on...’

Wakaba belatedly realized there must have been a clock hidden somewhere in the atrium, because its _ticking_ was suddenly echoing in her ears.

Juri coughed. “So, ah, the tour?”

“ _Right!_ ”

They wandered around for several minutes, with Juri pointing things out with the rote formality of a docent at the museum. That wasn’t an inapt comparison, Wakaba mused to herself, somewhere between the dining ‘ _hall_ ’ and the slightly more intimate dining ‘ _room_ ’. Everything was beautiful, of that there was no denying, but it felt about as alive as a museum diorama. Grandiose, _grandiloquent_ , but still missing...

...something...

“And here’s... my bedroom,” Juri said, seeming to hesitate as she realized what she was opening up. Wakaba maintained a mask of polite attention, even as her curiosity was piqued.

_It’s beautiful in here._

That was what Wakaba’s mind thought.

The rest of her body seemed to have different ideas, however. One of her hands brushed over Juri’s shoulder as she crossed the threshold, a reflexive bit of physical contact. Her mouth insisted on being similarly unthinking. “Trying to show me your bed already, senpai?”

Wakaba almost tripped over her own feet. That had gone out wrong, _blunt_ to the point of _accusatory_. “Sorry, that was the clothes talking,” she hurriedly apologized, making a vague motion towards her dress. “You know how the club pays us to flirt with everyone.”

She glanced up, finding Juri’s hand still resting on the door handle. “Even the women?” she asked, her voice sounding level despite the way she gripped the polished brass.

Wakaba swallowed. “Well, uhh, I suppose, but, y’know, we don’t really get a lot of women there.” The occasional actress or singer, but they usually didn’t stick around for long. “Okay, maybe that was more,” she reddened, “ _me_ talking.” Wakaba glanced up from her shoes, meeting Juri’s expectant gaze. “You know, being... bisexual.”

Japanese didn’t have an indigenous word for that kind of orientation, and the loanword - _baisekushuaru_ \- was a rather coarse linguistic transplant. Japan had never internalized homophobia the way Christendom had - a quick scan of the prints in any historical art gallery could confirm that - but it didn’t quite have the vocabulary for modern sexuality, either, not to the degree that the Anglosphere did.

Juri’s hand fell from the door handle, and Wakaba swore she saw an expression of relief cross her face. “You don’t... need to explain yourself to me.”

“I know,” Wakaba agreed with a smile. “Seemed only fair, though. Your secret’s already out.”

_Secret_ wasn’t quite the right word, Juri wanted to quibble, but she suppressed the urge. But it was true, her feelings for Shiori had eventually become known to those closest to her, and then those who weren’t. Gossip had traveled faster than light in a vacuum at Ohtori, and she had long stopped caring about what snide comments were made about her from the sidelines.

Wakaba spotted something behind Juri’s shoulder, breaking the tension like a snapped piano wire. “ _Ooooh_ , what a beautiful library you have here, everything's so perfectly organized!”

“That’s just a small collection,” Juri explained, as Wakaba began scanning spines. “There’s a larger library back on the ground floor.”

“ _Aaaah_ , you have _Waltz in a White Dress_ , I used to be obsessed with this series,” Wakaba exclaimed, running her fingers along their backs. “Hm... Shakespeare, Austen, Hugo, Murakami - both Haruki and Ryū...” Her fingers kept strumming the spines. “Ah, _Sailor Moon_! Something actually at my level,” she declared in mock self-deprecation, plucking out a volume at random.

“I can appreciate Usagi’s struggles as much as the next woman,” Juri replied, following Wakaba as she took a seat on the bed. A sprawling, four-poster bed complete with a canopy cover and satin sheets.

“Why do I find that hard to believe?” Wakaba asked, expressing her skepticism with an appropriately tactful _snort_. She continued thumbing through the first few pages, skimming over flaws and foibles impossible to imagine in Juri. “I haven’t read manga in forever,” Wakaba continued, rolling over onto her stomach. “If I read a newspaper once a week it’s a lucky thing.” 

Juri rested on her arm, reclining on her elbow like a like a patrician of ancient Rome. “I wish I’d known you better at Ohtori, Wakaba,” she said, soaking in the girl’s unadulterated bliss.

Wakaba glanced up from the Sailor Soldiers, her smile warm and warming. “Me too,” she agreed. “But we were different people then.” Wakaba scooched forward on the bed, the manga volume being flattened beneath her. “But we can always, you know, make up for lost time.”

“Yes,” Juri agreed.

“I’ve got a question for you.”

They were suddenly very, _very_ close.

“Yes?” asked Juri. Her breath seemed to blow Wakaba’s hairs...

“...where's the bathroom?”


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

It is a truth universally acknowledged that nobody looks more beautiful than when they’re wearing your borrowed clothes.

Juri was reminded of this truism when Wakaba reemerged from the bathroom, clad in a bathrobe cinched loosely at her waist. It was too big for her - unsurprising, given that the robe had been tailored to Juri’s frame - which only made it look better on her.

And the _AJ_ , monogrammed in orange thread, embroidered above Wakaba’s heart. Just the _pièce de résistance_.

“I decided to take up your offer to borrow some clothes after all,” explained Wakaba, padding back to the bed in now-bare feet. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Wakaba reached the edge of the bed, where Juri was perched. Wakaba’s hand, resting limply by her side, was gently clasped by Juri’s, the fencer’s thumb brushing oh-so-delicately. “It would hardly be chivalrous for me to refuse,” Juri replied, her tone distantly sardonic. “It looks very pretty on you.”

A blush colored Wakaba’s cheeks, betraying her attempt at coolness. “Thanks,” she mumbled back. Her voice failed her, but she regained some composure through her hands, bringing her other hand to cover Juri’s in turn. For a few moments there was nothing but silence, and the empty movement of entwined fingers.

“You’re still all suited up,” Wakaba observed, teasingly. “Like you’re going to interview me for a job, or something.”

“It’s the modern knight’s armor,” Juri replied, with a small smile of her own. “Here, let me loosen up.”

With her free hand, she undid the top button on her blouse, exposing an elongated sliver of skin. Wakaba was about to make a joke - at least she _hoped_ it would be a joke - about Juri’s ‘uninhibitedness’, when something caught her eye.

A faint white line, just along her collarbone.

“What’s...” Wakaba moved without thinking, one hand lifting off of Juri’s and towards the woman’s chest. Juri’s whole body tensed up a moment later, on the verge of recoiling, causing Wakaba to freeze in place. But then Juri seemed to _force_ herself to relax, a flick of her eyes granting Wakaba wordless permission to proceed.

Wakaba’s finger teased apart the fabric of Juri’s blouse, her fingertip brushing delicately across the line. It was the smallest of slashes, barely visible to the naked eye, but it was a _scar_ all the same. A mar, a flaw, a _wound_.

“How’d you get that?” Wakaba asked, her voice dropping to a low whisper without her realizing it.

Juri’s head tilted away, her gaze somewhere distant. “A dueling accident, back at Ohtori,” she explained, as Wakaba withdrew her finger. “I was... I was in a bad place. Mentally, emotionally. I lost control, swords were involved...” Her voice trailed off, capped by a small sniffle.

“I’m sorry,” Wakaba murmured, her hands back on Juri’s. “I didn’t mean to bring up old wounds.” She dared a small smile. “So to speak.”

Juri wiped the corner of her eye with her free hand. “No, no, it’s quite alright,” she replied, her voice forcibly steadied. “It was probably the best thing to could have happened, really.” Wakaba’s eyes conveyed that she didn’t entirely understand what Juri meant, but her expression was infinitely patient. She was used to not ‘ _getting_ ’ the Ohtori drama. “A good reminder, too,” Juri continued, faintly brushing the line a sword had once slashed across.

Wakaba leaned forward, pressing her lips to Juri’s forehead. Juri’s fingers tightened around her own, her head tilted up, eyes wide with surprise, _shock_.

So Wakaba kissed her again. This time on her lips.

For a long moment Juri did nothing, not reacting at all the gentle push of Wakaba’s lips against hers.

And then she was _kissing back_.

They broke off, and Juri let out a shudder that seemed to rack her whole body. Wakaba blinked in surprise. “ _Damn_ , I know I’m a good kisser, but I didn’t think...”

“No, it’s just...” Juri shook her head. “I meant, you _are_ a good kisser, it’s just that I’ve been...”

‘ _Touch starved_ ’ wasn’t the right phrase, not when she’d had every opportunity to sate her hunger. It wasn’t starvation but _fasting_ , the age-old belief that there was purity in abnegation, in _denial_.

She began to speak, but Wakaba was faster. “We can take this slow, senpai. We’re not speeding down a highway here.”

Juri averted her eyes. “No, that’s not it...” she murmured, atypically fumbling for words. Her hand found its way to Wakaba’s hips, though, gently keeping her close. “And we’re out of school, quit with the _senpai_ bit.”

“Of course...” Wakaba agreed, “Arisugawa _-sama_.”

That elicited a scoff from Juri, and a gentle shaking of Wakaba’s hips, which was enough for the younger woman to justify pushing Juri back onto the bed. She slipped onto the mattress beside Juri, their gazes aligned with one another.

And just like that, Juri felt herself slip free. That coil, so tightly wound around her soul, came undone, releasing all the newtons of passion she’d kept compressed, contained within her heart. She slipped free, then slipped a tongue past Wakaba’s lips, eliciting a muffled groan that was undeniably indecent. Wakaba leaned back, tilting Juri towards her, beckoning her forward with the unspoken language of her body, her pose. A fencer like her was sure to see the meaning.

Juri wished she remembered every moment that followed. Every exhilarating sensation, every peak of her emotions, every wave of relief. But like so many of her memories, these too would blur with time. It was simply too much to be experienced all at once, overwhelming and oversaturating her ability to process _touch_ and _thought_.

They slipped out of their clothes (or rather, they slipped out of _Juri_ ’s clothes, owned and borrowed), reveling in the expanse of skin against skin. Wakaba regained her senses first, or perhaps she had never entirely lost them, Juri was unable to tell. Wakaba maneuvered herself with gentle dexterity, comfortable in the sensory decadence in a way Juri could never quite be. Sliding up beside Juri, Wakaba propped her head up with one arm, while her free hand drifted across an out-turned thigh.

“Can I do this for you?” she asked, the tips of her neatly-trimmed nails grazing Juri’s bared and quivering skin.

Despite the tantalization of Wakaba’s touch, Juri was able to collect herself. Her eyes were still closed, lips parted, but her breaths steadied and her pulse slowed. There was a bygone familiarity in Wakaba’s tone, a distant echo. The voice of a woman who’d been so eager to please, to be provide love, to _care_. The one who’d befriended the exiles and the mavericks, offering shelter and friendship in exchange for the warmth that came with caring.

But it was different now, Juri noted, even as Wakaba’s fingers trailed upward and inward. There was no meekness tonight, no yearning need to please, no dependence hinged on approval. She’d been freed of those, by the time she’d left Ohtori. Her empathy had grown to be fully unvarnished, unconditioned.

“ _Please..._ ”

The raspy plea was all the permission Wakaba needed. She kissed Juri on the cheek, keeping her lips pressed for a long moment while her fingers began brushing the labia. Juri’s breaths resumed their staccato tempo, her face scrunching and contorting as Wakaba quickened her pace.

Juri was older, but Wakaba was an aged veteran when their sexual experiences were compared. She certainly knew enough to take things slow, experimenting almost unthinkingly, her eyes tracking every flinch and squirm and shudder. She teased her fingers further at an almost agonizing pace, watching the way Juri’s knees shook or her toes curled. Her hand was carefully cupped, maintaining just the right amount of clitoral pressure, while her fingers slipped inside the lips.

She could have brought Juri to climax in an instant, Wakaba distantly knew, or she could have had her begging for release. But Wakaba had neither the need nor the desire for that, not tonight, at least. So she took her time. Elongated the sensation, extended the experience. Seconds dragged into minutes, which dragged on longer still. Juri’s sweat was soaking the sheets by the time Wakaba redoubled her pace, just before _tantalizing_ became _torturous_...

Juri didn’t quite shout as she climaxed, but she let out a series of shuddering breaths, jagged and airy. She’d long ago lost herself in Wakaba’s touch, allowed herself to be carried away by the sensations. Gradually, almost reluctantly, she felt the world re-form around her, could clearly feel the cool air of the room and the warm skin of Wakaba. The latter withdrew her fingers with practiced deliberateness, providing Juri with one last pang of relief.

Her eyes were still closed, but Juri could _hear_ Wakaba grinning beside her. “It might not be my place to say,” she said anyways, tracing a finger along Juri’s breastbone, “but it looks like you needed that.”

Despite the impertinence of her junior, Juri smiled, and Wakaba nestled into the splayed red mane of her hair. “Maybe I did,” Juri confessed. One of her arms wrapped around Wakaba, unthinkingly, cradling the woman closer. “That was wonderful.”

Wakaba beamed. “Don’t mention it,” she requested, stealing another kiss. Juri obliged, but tilted Wakaba back towards her, pressing their lips together for another deep embrace.

They finally parted, and Wakaba slipped a half-inch back, letting Juri’s fingers comb through her hair. “And what do _you_ want?” Juri murmured, her nails scratching Wakaba’s scalp.

The younger woman smiled. “Right now,” she whispered, “I just want to watch you...” she almost added ‘ _fall asleep_ ’, but some vestigial sense of boundaries held her back. Juri was so beautiful, almost impossibly, almost _otherworldly_ so. But while she hadn’t lost any of that beauty, that _distinction_ , there was something heartwarmingly human about her now, barely on the edge of consciousness. And she looked so _tired_ , too, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders, and she’d just laid down for the first time in eons.

Wakaba shuffled a little closer to Juri, savoring the cool touch of the sheets on her skin. She listened to the gentle rhythm of Juri’s breaths, slow inhales and long exhales, the only sounds filling the room.

“Can you stay? For the night, I mean,” Juri asked, her gaze still listlessly resting on the canopy atop her bed.

Wakaba stroked Juri’s shoulder with a finger. “I was hoping you weren’t going to kick me to the curb,” she teased, planting a kiss on the spot her finger had just traced. “Not _just_ yet, at least.”

“Not _just_ yet,” Juri agreed, her eyes drifting shut.

Wakaba nuzzled up against her newfound lover. “Want me to make us breakfast in the morning?” she asked, one leg slinking around Juri’s.

“That sounds nice.”

* * *

_Shaken but unharmed, Juri Arisugawa steps out of the car._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shift and Clutch
> 
> +50 [Internet points](https://www.mememaker.net/api/bucket?path=static/img/memes/full/2018/Oct/7/2/points-don-t-matter-45.png) if you [catch](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/ViewersAreGeniuses) the two little references (“jokes”) in Wakaba’s reading preferences...
> 
> So I finished watching _Revolutionary Girl Utena_ , and it just absolutely _stuck_ with me. The music, the action, the characters, the mystery... it’s a masterpiece in the true sense of the term. I’ve wanted to write fanfiction for it for some time now, but it’s surprisingly.... _difficult_. Change any of the relationships at Ohtori and you have to consider how that would resonate in the Academy’s metaphysics (one cannot just pair Utena Tenjou off without considering what this means for the duels, for the Rose Bride, for End of the World...) Set something _after_ Ohtori, and you have to somehow reconcile the otherworldliness of the Academy with the mundaneness of the [Real World](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/RealLife). My writing tendency is to add a lot of real-world details, but doing so with _Utena_ risks shattering its mystique. I tried to split the difference between the aesthetics of _Utena_ and my own writing style; I can only hope that reality did not intrude _too_ far.
> 
> It probably wouldn’t surprise people who know me to hear that I was immediately drawn to Juri’s character. She’s both controlled and intense, with complex motivations for participating in the duels. Her two duels with Utena are some of the most tragic in the show, and [her first loss](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OaKh1vExh64) \- intercut with her heartbreak over Shiori Takatsuki - is a goddam visual masterpiece.
> 
> And Wakaba? She is, by any accounting, one of the more unreservedly _good_ people in Ohtori. We see her at her happiest when she’s sheltering Saionji, or presenting a bentō to Utena. [Her Black Rose duel](https://youtu.be/fRODBHoaRRE?t=1073) \- wherein a _shocked_ Utena refuses to draw the Sword of Dios from Anthy - is both one of the most heartbreaking and enheartening moments in _SKU_.
> 
> Putting these two together felt... surprisingly synergetic. Wakaba’s naturally nurturing personality and attraction towards the ‘special’ pairs neatly with Juri’s need for _literally anyone healthier than Shiori_. Also, rare pair brownie points, which I do love accumulating. AO3 has only one other work tagged [Juri/Wakaba](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=Arisugawa+Juri%2FShinohara+Wakaba&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&tag_id=Shinohara+Wakaba) at time of writing (which I’m finally going to actually read, now that my own take of the relationship is written). And a special thanks to the contributors to and maintainers of [Empty Movement](http://ohtori.nu/), easily the preeminent website for understanding the show and its characters.
> 
> Thank you, as always, for your readership! Please feel free to leave any comments, thoughts, feedback, or headcanons in the comments. Criticism is the only way I’ll ever get better as a writer. If you’d like to know more about me/my writing, feel free to hit up my [About](http://www.pvoberstein.tumblr.com/about) page. I’m also active on both [reddit](https://www.reddit.com/user/pvoberstein/overview) and [Tumblr](http://www.pvoberstein.tumblr.com/), and can be reached through any of the means on my [Contact](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liara_90/profile) page.


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